


smth I'm scrapping for a re-write

by AideStar



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, End of the World, Robots, Science Fiction, scifi, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AideStar/pseuds/AideStar
Summary: A team heading towards a black hole. A girl stranded on Earth as it's atmosphere disappears. A robot and his human causing mayhem.I had a longer summary but AO3 deleted it...AO3 also deleted the formatting :/





	smth I'm scrapping for a re-write

**Author's Note:**

> I'm continuing all these stories separate, so please comment if you liked it!! I may post them as I work on them if people are interested.  
> I'm rusty, I haven't solely written an original story in a long time,, Pwease no steppy
> 
> Name suggestions are welcome, please help m!

It's been a good ten years since they saw the sun. Floating, or advancing by cosmic force, towards the global eater of worlds: the Milky Way's very own super-massive black hole. It has taken half their lives, but merely 3 months back home on Rune, where they were sent from. Sarge takes a swig from his piss-extracted water, eyes level to the Board. The read is slow, like everything this close to the center.  
“Status?” Captain Fry asks, leaning over Sarge's shoulder. The 21 year old huffs at him, face drawn.  
“Same, same, Cap'. Advance .0002 kilometers per hour. Speed -2.03. 1.3346 HLY from home.” Sarge mumbles. Fry takes a closer look at the screen and nods.  
“Sounds normal to me. Colby, do a life support reboot for me by 0600. I'll be writing the monthly update in the bridge if anyone needs me.” Fry ducks out of the small tech room, metallic footsteps echoing down the hall.  
Sarge leans back in his seat, digging in his pocket for a charge, the small yellow pills designed by GISA to aid in caffeine and SSRI intake for long-term space flight. He pops a few in his drink to the chagrin of Colby, who shuffles to the life support station in his typical barefoot, pajama-pants and over large tank getup, Technician badge pinned on. “You know how I feel about doping on the job, Sargent.” he snarks. Sarge chuckles and finishes his drink.  
“You wouldn't be so damn tired all the time if you used them like you're supposed to, Colb.” he draws in his fake Earth dweller accent. No one but long-gone great-great-grandparents had those anymore. The Earth had been inhospitable for centuries, and the tradition of Earth Day had long since died out. Sarge is a militarized poser, just like everyone else planet-side. Colby had seen the propaganda films.  
“This ship is under Fry's jurisdiction. I don't care if he lets you get away with charging on the job, but some of us like to have real emotions, Josiah.” Sarge sits up, his chair giving squeaking back into place, and throws the empty can at Colby.  
“Shut up, Colby Jack.” he grumbles, plugging in to the com board.  
Life support is good, cryogenic chambers are functioning. The board is up to date on emergency orders and internal and external sensors are functioning. A internalized drill in the mess hall shows functioning quarantine doors, alarms, and gravity levels. All in check, cameras working and schedule updated. Last message from : 204 days ago, 3 planet-days.  
Colby sends the check through to Fry and logs of the terminal, exiting to the communal room. Deirdre, the ship Engineer, is still asleep at the table from the end of her shift at 2200, and Will sits at the main table, eating cereal and watching the latest news. His knee-length hair brushes the floor, half braided from last night. Medic is a tough job, but Will never complains.  
“Hey Colby. How's she running today?” Will greets with a soft smile. Colby sits beside him, linking hands.  
“She's running well, but unless Sarge takes his job seriously, I doubt we'll get to chill out any time soon.” he sighs. Will hums in agreement and offers a reassuring squeeze to Colby's hand.  
“It'll be alright, don't worry. I can wait a few more weeks.” Will says, concealer messily applied to the dark rings beneath his eyes. Colby sighs and nods, leaning against him. It should only take a day or two to catch up on work if he goes overtime. He knows how to work the Board, and he is the on board technician after all. Some equations and reports and then they can all enter the cryo-chambers for a few years, no problem.  
“Did you hear about the book?” Will whispers. Colby nods. “They say it's missing, but I know it isn't. Our government does a shitty job of hiding things.”  
Will has dark skin the color of pine, with pale gray eyes and long silver hair. His ears are pointed and twitch with the sounds of the ship, hands calloused with work and bark-like lines. Being a dryad without sunlight is like starving a man of the food right in front of him. His room is a mess of moss and heat lamps, but there's little else they can do but let him sleep it off in the cryo-chamber. Will has aged the least of course, but he's been awake the most. Where most of them were merely 10 years old when the mission began, Will was 40 years, still a young child but much more in control.  
The original plan was to have an all dryad team, or only use species that aged slower than humans or similar bloodlines. However, that proved difficult when the only dryad willing to go for thousands of years into space was and orphan convinced he could survive harnessing chi instead of the sun. Will has only admitted his failure in this to Colby, and replies on the ability of time to erase his embarrassing mistake from the others minds. 'Chi just doesn't flow out here. Not this deep in space, and not this far from alive planets. It worked for a while before TXI-81 was swallowed, but that was a hundred years ago, and now it's too late.' he had told him one night.  
By now Will is around 130 years old, but he appears just as young as Colby does at age 17. By the time they hit mission critical in 300 years and launch Lyca in to neutralize the black hole, it's estimated that they will be in their mid 30s, and will have invented a way to boost to 10x hyperlight speed in order to make it home by the time they're 40. Will will be 250 at least by then.  
“These years give me time to think and to write what I have thought. To find a meaning in life, perhaps. Although, this trip does give me meaning, and what should I care about anyone else's fates beyond this. Especially if we fail, haha..” This was Will's form of joking.  
The duty of inventing a way out of this was left to Colby. He got the most time in cryogenic sleep and was therefore the youngest by about 6 years, but by the end of the trip he would be the oldest of the humans aboard. He was a 'pure blood' only 5 generations from the earth evacuation, and therefore one of the most similar in body and mind to his ancestors on his home planet. Space travel and differentiating gravity had caused most early evacuees to lose memory retention, brain power, and bone integrity. However, Colby's family was one of the last to leave after the Age of Exile began and Earth became a inhospitable, so Colby remained very much like an Earth dweller, and retained about the same brain power.  
This didn't mean much. Dryads had centuries of life and could learn and retain things infinitely. Fry, who was a late form of Ebe, had an almost photographic memory, and lived twice as long as a human under the right conditions. However, creativity was a human thing. The other races tended to stick to laws and scientific fact, while humans were more free-thinking. Or stupid.  
“You're not stupid, Colby.” Will assured many times. “You're just different, and that's wonderful.”  
“Hey punks, what's up.” greets Galora as she enters the room. She's makeup-less this early in the morning, but around this time she always comes into the communal room to layer it on. “Any news?”  
“Nothing, per usual.” Colby replies. Will shrugs as the old news program ends. “The monarchy on Rune in still falling apart, just like it was 20 days ago.”  
“Ugh, that network is trash.” she says between bites of toast. “Besides, the only good government is this rust bucket's. What'd you call it, Will? A micro-whatsa?”  
“A micro-democratic alliance.” he corrects and she nods.  
“Anyway, same old reports coming in from home. I finally figured out how to fix the Board's child-lock so I could curse on the net. Merriam back at GISA strongly disapproves.” Galora laughs, searching in the fridge for something. “Hey, are we out of coffee again?”  
“Sorry, it's been a rough morning.” Colby says, stretching. “Sarge keeps charging on the job.”  
“Welp, his loss. When you're off the dope you get to make your own candy.” she snickers. “My latest concoction is almost ready. You two are gonna try it, right?”  
“You know I can't.” Will says, and she smiles.  
“More for Colby and I then. I wonder if Deirdre is up for some this time..” Galora looks over at the sleeping girl. “Anywho, gotta get back in there. Fry's report should be in any second. See ya chumps later!” she says in her loud, scratchy voice, and leaves.  
“That girl, she knows I can't have any of her weird poison drinks.” Will sighs, beginning to braid his hair. “A strict diet of water, carbon dioxide, and minerals is the assignment. No deviations..”  
“Maybe I can make you something?” Colby offers, and Will smiles.  
“You can't, you have to work.” he replies.  
“Eh, fuck work.”  
\---------------------------  
Earth: 250 years before

It starts with a shriek. Down the street a bit, where the road crests just so that the view is obstructed. She turns towards it, as do many people on the busy street. Cars begin to honk and screech, a taxi comes barreling down the road and through a red light, a heavy breeze following it. The musk of the city feels heavy, the air above the crest dims.  
Then the smoke hits.  
She runs. Before she even registers the screams, the sirens, the crying; she runs. She was on the track team in high school. Her worn sneakers beat the sidewalk and she pushes past stunned pedestrians, her heart in her head and her bag bouncing roughly. Her hands clench white, painfully onto a book, but her breath remains steady and trained.  
Don't look back, do not look back, she turns a corner and her feet almost slide out from under her. The crowds are moving now, hot and smothering and don't look back. A woman cradles her child as she's stormed past, a man kneels in the street between the cars and prays, a child trips and is yanked back up by frantic hands. Cameras are out, flashing, recording, and she pushes past their bewildered blockade.  
Where to go. The air presses against her back and she stumbles. People climb over cars, dive into alleys and public buildings. Glass flies from the left as a man breaks a window with his elbow. She sees the smoke, billowing, consuming all in its path. She's stuck, watching the carnage just a block ahead as it tears towards her.  
“Hey!” She's grabbed by the arm and pulled, hard. She stumbles and turns and time is moving again as she's taken into a building. The glass doors are too-clean, the ground a white linoleum. She takes a few steps back and watches as he bolts the door. Deadlocks, his hands sooty and shaking. He has dirt smudged up his face, brown hair frizzed out and glasses askew. “Quick, push over something heavy,” he shoots.  
She pushes an ice box towards him, whole body in the action, and they guide it in front of the doors. The whole front of the store is glass, and people rush by, leaving dirty hand prints and grease smudged across the panes. He huffs and rushes into a back room. The world outside is quiet, faint car alarms and shouts obscured. The light begins to fade, and fade, until it's gone.  
She steps back, hands shaking. The AC rumbles on and the boy returns, smearing sweat and soot across his brow as he wipes it. He sits on the ground and sighs, cleaning his glasses with his shirt.  
“Thanks.” She says, and he shrugs.  
“I hope you've been studying,” he says, untying his boots.  
“I have, I just didn't think..”  
“Didn't think it would be this soon? Yeah, me neither.” he huffed, sticking out his hand. “The name's Amos.”  
“Oh, right. I'm Amari.” she replies.  
“Huh. Odd.” he looks out the window and she follows, but there's nothing but dense black smoke.  
“What's odd?” she asks, still peering out.  
“This is the day, it seems.” he says, getting up and sitting on the counter at the cashier line. “Did you see the moon last night?”  
“I'm agnostic.” Amari replies. He waves her off.  
“The martian prophets were right. On the half-moon of March, between 10th and 20th, in the year of a new century.” he explains.  
“Are you neo-marsist?”  
“No, just curious.” Amos hops off the counter, rummaging through the shelves. “We've only got a few days in here before this air becomes toxic. I'm leaving sooner rather than later.”  
“How are you going to survive out there?” Amari sits against the wall, thumbing through her book. It's a blank journal, given to her by a friend recently. The first page of the Anarchist Law was written on the inside cover. Rule one: always keep a notebook on hand.  
“How are you going to survive trapped in here?” he replies.  
She taps on the page and begins to write. 'March 17th, 2300. My name is Amari , and today it happened. Earth's atmosphere has dissipated and I am planet-side, trapped in a corner store with a boy named Amos and no idea where to go from here...'  
\----------------------  
On Rune, several days earlier

“Micah, hold still!”  
“I am still, now hurry up!”  
“Don't push it, kid.”  
A young human boy and a small, self-programmed robot stand in darkness at the Earth Museum on . In front of them is the Journal Room, where in a dense glass case sits 's Journal of Earth, the legendary tome that will be destroyed tomorrow morning at 0200 under the orders of Senator Quincy.  
“Remind me, why are we doing this again?” Micah whispers, shifting so the small alien robot can stand on his shoulders.  
“You know why, you flesh monster. This was your idea, after all!” Byte whispers back, slowly carving at the glass with his laser module.  
“My idea? All I said was, 'Hey, Byte, maybe we should do something about that precious Earth article instead of letting the corrupt government destroy the only remaining piece of literature from my planet!' Never did I say we should break into the museum and steal it!”  
“I get that you're new to this whole space criminal gig, but at least try to pretend you're having fun, would you?” Byte mumbles, completing the hole in the case.  
“Be careful, please.” Micah sighs, looking around warily. “There's no way we haven't been spotted yet..”  
“Have a little more faith in me,” Byte reaches in and grabs the book. “It's not like I'm an--” a wailing alarm sounds. “idiot..”  
“Come on!” Micah yells, grabbing Byte by the leg and pulling him onto his shoulders, book in hand. “I'm not breaking us out of prison again.”  
Micah jumps through a window, glass shattering onto the sandy earth, and runs. He speeds up a hill, across a parking lot, and into oncoming traffic as Byte pulls on his hair.  
“Look out, four eyes! You're gonna get yourself killed!” Byte screeches. They dodge the car and push through pedestrians on the sidewalk before coming to a stop in a narrow alleyway. Micah sits, letting Byte off.  
“Ughhhh. I can't believe I let you talk me into thisss.” the boy groans.  
“Why aren't you celebrating, we just stole 's Journal. And got away. Cheer up!” Byte says, opening the book.  
“Don't open it here!” Micah says, snatching it out of the robot's hands. “We need to get off this planet first. Where's your ship?”  
“I parked it here, remember?” Byte says, gesturing down the alley.  
“Byte, there's nothing here.”  
“What do you mean there's--” Byte looks around. “Oh...”  
“This isn't a parking spot.” Micah sighs, head in hands.  
“Right. Shit.” Byte sits beside the boy. “Want a twix bar?”  
“How do you have that?” Micah says, taking the candy and shoving it in his mouth.  
“I stole it back on Mars.”  
“Of course you did..”  
\--------------  
Back on Ship name

“Colby.” the technician is startled awake at his station, turning quickly in his chair to see Captain Fry.  
“O-oh, sorry Captain, I, uh..” Colby looked at his cluttered station, half-finished reports and calculations strewn on the controls, cold coffee at his desk. “I've been working overtime lately...”  
“I noticed.” he says, patting Colby on the back. “I appreciate it.”  
“Thanks, Fry.”  
“No problem.” he says, looking off towards Sarge's empty seat. It's 2438 according to the ship's internal clock, and their shift doesn't begin for another 4 hours. “Listen, I have a special request.”  
“Is it against protocol?” Colby asks. Fry gives a soft laugh.  
“No, it's just a bit odd.” he assures. “Do you think you could let me in to talk with Nile?”  
“Talk?” Colby thinks, then shrugs. “I see no problem with that. Just.. Don't touch anything, alright? I can give you some time there, but only until 0100.”  
“Thanks Colb, it means a lot to me.” Fry smiles and bows slightly, a custom of Ebe back on Rune, and heads towards the cryogenic chamber.  
Nile. He's been asleep since the very beginning.  
Something went wrong during take off. He was assigned the role of pilot, and he was able to get the ship out of orbit and on course. He was only 9 when it happened, the youngest pilot to ever man a long-term journey, let alone to man perhaps the most important expedition in the history of GISA. The ship was fine, the rest of the crew was already in the chamber, set to wake up a day after take off.  
When protocol was through and everyone else woke up, they found Nile half-dead at the helm, autopilot on. He knew something was wrong. With him, with the ship.. For a long time Fry blamed GISA, their negligence must have caused it. The truth? They've only been in space a total of 17 planet-days. In that time, GISA has had nothing to say. Will and Colby worked for months with the Board's protocol and medical programs. All they had was unknown head trauma. No cause, no reason, no medical history to suggest why. It seemed like sabotage, but to Fry it seemed like murder. After all, Nile is Fry's brother.  
The body is kept alive by life support in the chamber. Will works every day to discover a cure, but Nile remains unresponsive. Fry appears on the cryo-chamber camera, and Colby types in a few commands to open the door.  
“What's he doing now?” Will enters the room and peers over Colby's shoulder.  
“I don't know.. He probably misses him.” Colby sighs tiredly, reaching back to cup Will's face. “What are you doing out here at this hour? Shouldn't you be resting?”  
“Can't. I've been working overtime too.” he replies, watching the monitor closely. Fry is sitting beside the one closed capsule, eyes closed. “Something about Nile's case doesn't seem right to me.”  
“Oh?” Colby zooms in on Fry, the capsule fogged up with dim lights on indicating life.  
“His vitals have stabilized. Everything checks out. He should be awake, or at least conscious by now. I set the capsule on manual last week in case... yet nothing's happened.”  
“Awake? He won't be the same though, will he.” Colby turns to Will. The dryad shrugs, looking exhausted and at a loss.  
“Who's to say. There wasn't any internal bleeding, no external injuries. If my speculations are right, he had a seizure and is simply in a coma. Otherwise... well, only time will tell. In any case, Nile is still only 9 years old in there, and he will have a difficult time adjusting once he wakes up.” Will sighs and places a kiss on Colby's head. “Get some rest, okay? Humans require 8 hours of sleep to preform adequately on duty.”  
“Yeah, and dryads require 4 hours of sunlight a day to maintain a healthy lifestyle.” Colby replies. “'Night, Will.”  
“Goodnight, Colby.”  
\-------------  
“Where are you going? It's only been a few hours, Amos.”  
“I'm going out.” he replies, pulling on a brightly colored vest. “There could be others out there, Amari. Children.”  
“I know that!” she says, standing. “But the only ones still alive out there will be somewhere safe like this!”  
“This place won't be safe forever.” he pulls on safety goggles and a mask. “You're welcome to stay. I'm taking the back door.” he zips his backpack up, full of water and canned food and disappears through the custodian hall.  
“Wait, Amos!” Amari calls, but recieves no reply but the opening and shutting of a heavy metal door. She leans back against the counter, looking around. The fog outside is just as dense, and the climate inside has begun to heat up despite the high AC. The TV buzzes with static over the checkout station, but the radio screeches with reports from as far as Canada of fires starting, unbreathable air, and a drop in pressure so severe reporters are bleeding from the ears and screaming to be heard.  
She flips through the stations, through silence and screams, until she reaches the end, and a slow, string-filled orchestra plays. She huffs, and opens her bag, dumping its contents on the ground. Chewing gum, wrappers, receipts, her phone, notebook, and a lighter. Alright.  
Rule 2 of the Anarchists Law: the essentials. She walks through the aisles, dumping boxes of matches, a thick rope, canned beans, and a multi-tool in her bag. In the freezers she gathers water, a few energy drinks, and some vodka for good measure. Peroxide, bandages, duck tape... Behind the register she finds plastic bags and twist ties.  
“What else...” she goes through the camping section again, and finds carbon filters. “Perfect.” she takes as many as she can fit in the bag, then straps on a thick painters mask and goggles. The ceiling swirls with smoke as it slowly leaks in from outside, and she hurries to finish packing. The dark substance through the window rolls and rolls, but is never disturbed. If anyone else is out there, they aren't on the street.  
She fastens the radio to her waistband and takes a deep breath. Stumbling through the custodian buckets and mops, she pushes open the back door, thick air blowing past her and ruffling her curls. There is no visibility, and after she forces the door closed she pulls out her phone, activating the flashlight on it. The door has let her into a back alley, and with her 3-foot visibility she shuffles down towards the street.  
The air is sticky and sweet, but burns on the inhale. She's smoked before, but nothing ever tasted like this. She focuses on the ground, keeping one hand on the building to her left to guide her as she makes it onto the main street. It's dead silent but for her radio, still playing a calming classical rendition.  
“Okay, where am I going..” she peers up, but no light can penetrate the smoke. Her phone illuminates and street sign; Wade Ave. “Alright. Towards the M Line, I think.”  
She makes her way down, holding her breath as much as she can, stepping on things that twist under her feet, squish unlike cement should. Eyes ahead. The rails emerge from the haze, and she sighs in relief, grabbing onto one and making her way down the steps into the subway.  
It's just as dark underground, but the dim glow of the emergency lights make it through here. The squeal of the train brings a spark of hope, and she descends faster. The tunnel is brighter, and she can make out the vending machines and benches as they stretch down the stop. A train is stopped on the other side of the track, its internal lights flickering. Rows of people sit, unmoving, as the doors open and close again and again.  
“Hello?” she calls. It echos, and no one replies.  
A few people sit slumped in their seats, waiting for a train they'll never board. A man in a dirtied business suit lies on the ground, eyes wide. Amari trains her breath and waits for the train, hearing the distant promise of its arrival. Light floods the room as a train barrels in, stopping and opening its doors. The city had replaced drivers with computers years ago, and for once that made all the difference as she boarded.  
This train is just as full from the morning rush. Passengers slump up and down with the rocking of the train, bags of groceries, papers, and school supplies emptied on the floor. The inside is cooler, but she can feel the sweat clinging to her clothes from her journey thus far. What remains of Earth's atmosphere can't keep out all the sun's rays, and if she didn't remain in cover, that could spell her demise.  
The train jolts and stops at the next station, a muffled, recorded voice announcing it was the GISA Hospice exit. The station is only slightly fogged, and there are no bodies to be seen. Amari exits, straightens, and cautiously makes her way up the stairs.  
\----------------  
“Why are they running away? Do I look like a threat to you? I, a malfunctioning sentry bot. Micah, this planet is nuts.”  
“You look like a sentry robot working for Migs Krad, the most powerful man in this system, Byte.”  
“The boss doesn't exist here, remember? This time line's Earth didn't explode like yours, it just kinda, died? Anyway, they shouldn't know about Krad.”  
“Then why is he on that billboard right there?” Byte peers up and huffs.  
“Fine, give me your jacket.” he says, pulling on Micah's sleeve.  
“Wha-- But it's cold out here!” Micah pulls back, lifting Byte off the ground.  
“Don't care, I need a disguise!” he says, and Micah takes off his jacket, dropping it so it covers the bot completely. “Thanks.”  
“What are we looking for again?” Micah kicks at the pebbly ground, shivering. “The Anarchists Law?”  
“Yeah. They're the clowns we can hide with. Plus, I'm pretty sure they'll want to see what we've got.” Byte explains, pulling on the extremely oversized jacket. “How do you wear this thing?”  
“You are 3 feet tall.” Micah sighs, rolling up the sleeves. “I am nearly 6.”  
“You just love to brag about how tall you are, don't you?” Byte mumbles, then patters ahead. “Come on, slow poke!”  
The two search through the back alleys and small shops as the night drags on. Byte pulls Micah along, trying to keep the kid from getting distracted. They'd been together about 3 years now; on the run from MK and just being a nuisance to whatever planet they landed on. Byte was a sentry for decades before he malfunctioned, realizing he could write his own protocol. That was back when most human planets were in the 20th century, when the art they produced became a valuable thing to big goons like Migs.  
The sentry's were sent to wire a connection between Earth satellites and send the data back to Krad on Uniko, his personal moon orbiting Rune. For a while, the data was sold on the black market straight, but then they discovered music. It acted much like a drug, and that became the ticket. Underground currency remained dance tracks for centuries.  
Byte was stationed on Micah's planet, and had been siphoning off the radio to broadcast galaxy-wide, for free, after he'd gone off program. It worked well, until Micah set up an off-grid station in Utah from his bedroom, blasting B-sides and rare songs into the channels of a million starship com units using a heightened alien frequency. Byte got in, “rescued” the 15 year old from the early 1970s, and got off planet just in time for GISA police to arrive and condemn his Earth, destroying it for interference.  
Escaping the authorities wasn't hard, especially when you pilot a micro starship designed by the head of the black market exchange to be used with wormholes. The difficult thing was having a human on board. There are only a few Earth's still around from what they've seen, and most of them are either being harvested for resources or are just a fraction of a centimeter different in tilt, therefore never giving life. Micah had people to miss. Most Earth dwellers were long gone, especially here on Main Rune.  
“Byte,” Micah taps the bots head. “I found the symbol.” he points to a small A with an L inside, the Anarchists Law code. Byte nods and looks around. They're in the middle of an alley, no doors in sight, a narrow road at its end.  
“Ah,” Byte bends down, knocking on a sewer grate. “Here we are..”  
“Down there?” Micah whispers, but with a few careful knocks, the grate lowers and allows them in.  
“Yes, down here, now climb in.” Byte pushes the kid, and Micah grimaces but obeys, climbing in and disappearing from view. “You better catch me!” Byte says, hopping in after.  
The room is dimly lit, and Micah grabs Byte by the hood to face their host. A tall half-human in a blazer and heavy boots, grin twisting his face.  
“Gentleman, welcome to the Order of Anarchy.”  
.......  
A ring sounds in the technician quarters. Then another, and next a bright light. Colby sits up, rubbing his eyes as his quarters are opened by the protocol. He stands, leaning against the wall with a yawn, and stumbles towards the deck. Three alarms have been triggered.  
The life support line for capsule 3 has been unplugged. The door has been opened using outdated protocol. And the cryo-chamber sensors have been tripped.  
Standing in the middle of the chamber is Nile, staring straight at the camera.  
\-----------------  
A thrum of electricity greets Amari as she enters the main hall of the hospital. Bright lights, a sterile smell, and clean floors stretch out behind the secretary desk, where a woman sits, head down. She walks past the desk, through the emergency room hall, with drawn curtains hiding dead patients. The fog came and went from the building, and quarantine procedures had started too late, locking the doors after the people inside had died.  
In the spaces inside, there was little to no oxygen, most likely killing everything within a minute. There was little struggle here it seemed, unlike on Wade Avenue, where the clouds could be seen approaching. The radio continues to play as she looks over the locked cabinets of chemicals and scattered supplies.  
There are rows and rows of hospital rooms, some with glass walls and others without, closed doors and all. Nurses appear asleep at their station, a patient ready for surgery sits on a gurney halfway down the hall with doctors fallen around it. A small boy sits propped up in bed, holding a storybook, water on his bedside table. His door is ajar, a nurse on the floor beside him, but when Amari takes a step towards him he looks up.  
Brown hair tousled in blue scrubs, the child sets down his book and waves, a hospital mask covering his face. “Quarantine!” he shouts, voice muffled and alive.


End file.
